Welcome To Paradise
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
There is a short
essay called "Welcome to Holland" which
is meant to comfort a parent who has recently received information their
child has some type of disability. The premise is you have
booked a trip to Italy, but your plane was re-routed to Holland. You miss the
idea of Italy, the culture of Italy may always be a mystery with its own
language and art -- but Holland is stunning itself. Beautiful but different.
When we first
understood things with Beatrix may not go well someone sent me this essay. It was
welcome as an affirmation of the life I was embarking on -- the life I assumed
included a child with Down Syndrome -- because whenever there's a problem in
pregnancy, that's the "worst" that could happen, right?
(Disclaimer here -- I was
excited about the possibility... a not so tiny part of me was
thrilled I would be given the opportunity to mother a baby with
extra special chromosomes. I do not see a baby with Down Syndrome as a negative.
It's just the first thing people imagine when they learn their baby
is going to be atypical.)
I started my study of
Holland. I began to learn the language. It's trisomies and chromosomes and
cardiac anomalies. Long words in Latin and Greek which mean your baby will face
challenges beyond what we commonly think of when we think of DS. I began to pay
more attention to babies with enhanced chromosomes.
Then Beatrix died. There was a
lot in between preparing for Holland and her death -- but this is about her death
so we'll skip that other stuff.
I didn't get to go to
Holland.
And now, I don't really like
that essay.
Because that essay lies -- it
implies Holland and Italy are the only possible destinations.
Sometimes the plane crashes.
You don't get Holland or Italy. You end up on a desert island somewhere in the
middle of the sea.
So, for today I'm going to
write a new essay, for those who didn't make it to Italy or Holland. My
experience was carrying to term with a poor prognosis, so you'll forgive me for
small parts of this which may not apply to the person who had no knowledge they weren't going to Italy.
"Welcome to
Paradise"
Expecting a baby is like
preparing for a trip -- maybe to Italy..... You buy books to prepare
yourself for the challenges to come. You familiarize yourself with the
customs and make decisions about the direction which you will take when
you arrive at your destination.
But on the way there you
learn your plane has been diverted. You won't be going to Italy, but to
Holland. Thank goodness you have the foreknowledge that you won't be
landing where you expected to. You quickly Google traditions and customs. You
memorize a few phrases which will come in handy. You look at lots and lots of
photos and read the recollections of people who have gone to Holland and found
beauty in the land. You're disappointed you won't get to see Italy -- but
Holland is beginning to look like an exciting place to be.
Their personal recollections seem to welcome you, and answer all of your questions about Holland. Pretty soon, you feel confident about Holland. You feel like an expert. You've got the geography down. This trip will hit some bumps, because you've packed for Italy, but overall it is going to be a great trip.
Their personal recollections seem to welcome you, and answer all of your questions about Holland. Pretty soon, you feel confident about Holland. You feel like an expert. You've got the geography down. This trip will hit some bumps, because you've packed for Italy, but overall it is going to be a great trip.
Right before landing, the
lights unexpectedly dim in the cabin and the stewardess tells everyone to put
on their seat belts because some turbulence is up ahead. The cabin is dark and
all you can hear is the thumping of your own heart in this space.
Suddenly, there is no noise
except for that thumping in your ears and the sound of metal twisting as the
plane hurtles downward through layers of atmosphere.
You crash land on a desert
island. You are alone. Occasionally you see the footprints of others on the
sand of the beach. You send out smoke signals and see answering plumes from
other islands. But at night when you lie down to sleep, you are alone.
You lose track of the days
and nights you spend on the island. You have crash landed and nothing else
seems important enough to think about. Occasionally you eat, mostly because you
happen upon something edible, and not by any design of your own. You aren't
even worried about missing Italy, and Holland is obviously in the past as well.
Every milifibre of your being is concentrated on survival. You become stoic in
the face of your own fragility and learn to maintain passiveness like a second
skin -- good for those days when hunger overwhelms you and you can't find
anything to sustain you. You sit in the shade of palm trees and remember
Home. You don't think about what everyone is doing back there, because it's too
painful to look in from the outside -- it magnifies your solitude.
One day you see a ship on the
horizon. It is welcoming and wonderful. The persons on the boat see you
stranded on your little island and they send out a rowboat to pick you up. They
invite you in, and you are so grateful -- hungry and tired you accept their
offer.
The boat brings you back to
your starting point. It's not Italy or Holland, its Home. But home is
different. Home is populated by people who have visited Italy -- and all they
talk about is Italy. Every breath they take is full of Italian air, and when
they bed down for the night their dreams consist of Italy and all of its
charms. The entire world seems to center around Italy. Occasionally you meet a
traveler who has returned from Holland. They are just as foreign as those who
who have visited Italy. They talk about tulips and windmills when all you know
about is hot sand between your toes and the quiet hunger that gnawed at your
insides. They want you to look through their photo albums of images from
Italy -- hold their souvenirs. But all you know about is starving. Occasionally
you hear of someone else's experience on a desert island -- you might even get
together with another survivor.... But when you talk to one another, you
realize that your island was nothing like their island, and you leave off
feeling more alone than ever.
Eventually, people at Home
start recommending you try Italy again. It's perfect this time of year and it
will help you forget all of your troubles. You think about it, and there's a
part of you that really wants to visit Italy. Part of you occasionally thinks
of Holland -- but most of what's in you is certain that the plane will crash
again, and you'll end up trapped on that island.
It takes a long time, but
eventually you work up the courage to purchase a ticket. More courage is needed
when you step onto the plane. When the plane takes off, it's all you can do to
keep from dissolving at every bump. When you are brave enough to look out the
window you see small islands here and there with smoke stacks on the beaches.
You have to look away.
You {finally} get to Italy.
And is Italy beautiful.
More beautiful than you ever imagined it could be. But occasionally you walk too closely to the shore, you hear the waves crashing onto the beach, and it reminds you of the island and how you will never be the same. While you are in Italy, you sometimes pine for the island with its seashore and shade palms, but something about the lights in Italy catches your eye and you momentarily forget how hungry you were.
And is Italy beautiful.
More beautiful than you ever imagined it could be. But occasionally you walk too closely to the shore, you hear the waves crashing onto the beach, and it reminds you of the island and how you will never be the same. While you are in Italy, you sometimes pine for the island with its seashore and shade palms, but something about the lights in Italy catches your eye and you momentarily forget how hungry you were.
Your trip to Italy is
amazing. You come Home refreshed and with your own souvenirs and tales to tell.
You are the only one who keeps the stories of the crash landing and the island
at the forefront of your mind. Eventually, everyone stops asking about the
island, your story becomes a memory best kept tucked away. But the island is
always with you, in the muscles and bones that developed in the struggle to
survive. It is the first thing you think of every morning upon waking -- for a
split second you are disoriented and believe that you are still there. It
always takes a short time to shake that feeling off.
On some days, you will
purposely pull memories of the island out of the deep regions of your mind. You
will go into your closet and pull out the tattered clothing you brought
back. You will bury your nose in the folds of the fabric, and you will once
again be walking on the beach with your feet in the hot sand.
For you, travel has forever
been changed. No matter how many more trips you take, the memory of your
heartbeat thudding in your ears will sit in your bones. The cool breezes and
hot beach will, as well. You will come to understand that crash-landing, while
not a positive thing, is an inextricable part of you now. And one day, you will
recount stories of the island which make you feel good about your time there.
You will always grieve deeply over that first missed trip to Italy. But one
day, a portion of your memories from the island will bring pure joy. On that
day, you will begin feeling full again.
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